


The Journal

by Blooderfly



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: A/B/O, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Fluff, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-08
Updated: 2018-03-08
Packaged: 2019-03-28 14:05:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13905600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blooderfly/pseuds/Blooderfly
Summary: It's been a very long time, and Anders has stopped running. Fenris, however, still has a battle ahead of him.





	The Journal

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo this happened. You'll probably notice that Fenris seems quite OOC. But it'll be explained later! Thanks for reading. <3

It was cold, but nothing compared to the frigid weather he recalled from the Anderfels. Not many memories remained of his youth after all these decades, but the harshness of those winters was a difficult experience to forget. Still, Anders kept his coat drawn tight around himself to keep the chill from penetrating his aching joints as he made his way to the market area of the small village he’d been residing in.

The early morning air was especially crisp and his boots--and staff, which he found himself using as a walking stick these days--crunched over frost-covered dirt. Winter was blessedly shifting into spring but the nights still saw a freeze more often than not. Fishmongers, bakers, and other vendors were busy opening their shops and Anders inhaled deeply, taking in the various scents of a peaceful, bustling community. He stopped at the baker’s and fingered his coin purse, frowning at how light it felt. With a sigh he decided on a small loaf of plain rye, then moved on to the butcher’s to see if he could afford a bit of jerky.

_**...the song…** _

Anders jolted to a stop with a strangled gasp. His heart fluttered and began pounding as adrenaline filled his body. He swallowed thickly, trying to keep his breathing under control.

Justice...the spirit suddenly felt almost feral in his mind. After Kirkwall, Justice had been distressed and melancholy, and it had been difficult for Anders to deal with the spirit’s depression as well as his own guilt. It had taken years of Anders pleading, desperately, for Justice to just be quiet, until finally, blessedly, he was. Once his mind was his own again, Anders realized he was grateful that Hawke had spared him instead of bitter and resentful and wishing for death. Slowly, he began to pick up the pieces of his life.

Though he knew he was still a wanted man, he traveled from village to village for many years, healing and helping those he could. He allowed his hair to grow out to the middle of his back and kept a neatly trimmed beard along the line of his jaw, as at least some semblance of disguise. Though usually he found that the humble village folk he encountered either cared not for the troubles of the world outside their own town, or simply knew nothing about it. They were occupied with their own lives of fishing, baking, butchering, and tending fields to provide for their families; they had no time to worry about an old Beta past his prime who may or may not be a wanted apostate. And if they did suspect him, they were always grateful enough for his healing to keep their mouths shut.

This sudden, near animalistic change in Justice after so many years of silence had him instantly terrified. Anders drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly, calming himself. He realized that after those two simple words, the spirit had retreated. A horse pulling a cart suddenly whisked by him and he was jolted back to his senses. Swallowing thickly, he glanced around, recovering his bearings. His eyes fell on a cloaked figure ahead of him, a few stalls down. The hood of the cloak hid the person’s face, but from the angle of their body, Anders felt that whoever it was was staring at him.

Rattled from hearing Justice and the chill of the morning causing an especially sharp ache in his bones, he decided to forgo any more shopping and return to the relative safety of his tiny hut on the edge of the village. But as he tucked the meager bread he had bought into his cloak and turned on his heel, he saw that the cloaked figure was now slowly walking towards him.

 _No need to panic, Anders…_ he thought to himself. _Probably just going about their own business._

But he heard the crunch of boots not his own growing closer, and he felt his heartbeat and breathing speed up again.

 _Maybe they need healing…_ he thought again desperately. But every instinct he had was warning him that something was very much not right. A strong scent filled his nostrils: an omega. Picking up his pace, he quickly diverted down an alley between two houses, but stopped short when he saw that the alley ended at the wall of a third house, blocking him in.

_**The song…** _

Anders flinched, his breath coming in short puffs, fogging the air around his face. He turned swiftly, readying his staff in front of him. There stood the cloaked figure, now brandishing a massive greatsword in one hand. A soft blue glow emanated from within the stranger’s cloak and Justice flared as the person slowly closed in.

“Don’t--!” Anders said harshly, directed more at Justice than the stranger. But the cloaked figure stopped, sword held loosely at their side. Anders’ eyes flicked over the person before him, taking in the tattered black wool cloak, equally tattered boots, clawed gauntlets with more spikes than possibly necessary--

His heart stopped. He watched wide-eyed as the person lifted their free hand and pulled away that huge, darkened hood. Long pointed ears poked out from beneath shaggy snow-white hair that fell around a throat of dark skin etched with intricate, glowing white lines. Huge mossy-green eyes stared back at Anders, wide with wonder.

“Fenris…” Anders breathed out.

The elf said nothing. In silence he resumed his approach. Anders held his ground, keeping his staff at the ready.

This was it. Fenris had come to finish him off; the elf had always loathed him, anyways. And Anders knew that he wouldn’t have the strength to fight back. Not anymore.

“Fenris--” he said again and he hated how desperate he sounded.

The elf closed in, and Anders stiffened as that huge sword was lifted. But Fenris simply smacked the flat of the blade against Anders’ staff, knocking it out of the mage’s hand. In the same motion he released his sword and both weapons clattered to the ground. Anders furrowed his brow in confusion and Fenris came closer still. So close Anders felt the hot steam of the elf’s breath on his face as he looked up at the mage. And suddenly a gauntleted hand was holding the back of his neck and Anders was pulled down into a tight embrace, Fenris’ other arm snaking around his waist in a vice grip.

 _ **Mmm, the song…** _ Justice purred.

Anders’ breath caught in his throat. Fenris smelled like lyrium and leather and sweat and _omega_ , and Anders felt weirdly comforted by it. Hesitantly he placed his hands on the elf’s waist, his heart still hammering wildly in his chest. This couldn’t possibly be the same Fenris he’d bickered with constantly all those years ago…

“Anders…” he heard Fenris murmur into his neck. His voice, still as deep and enticing as the mage remembered, sounded raw and scratchy, as though the elf hadn’t used it in a long while. The sound of his name from the warrior’s lips was strange...had Fenris ever used it before?

“I thought...” the elf continued. “I’ve seen--” but he huffed in irritation; clearly he couldn’t find the words to express what he wanted to tell Anders. The feeling of Fenris’ breath on his neck made Anders’ skin prickle with gooseflesh. With difficulty, he swallowed away the lump in his throat and spoke softly.

“Not here to kill me, then?”

Fenris huffed again and pulled back just enough to bring their foreheads together. Anders was afraid to move, afraid to breath, afraid he was dreaming and this was all some sick trick the Fade was playing on him. But the elf’s hot breath on his face, the metal claws tangled in the hair at his nape, tugging and scratching, the hum of lyrium, the scent of omega...it was all very real.

“Fool mage,” Fenris whispered. His voice quavered. “The templars were unchecked for so long... They slaughtered and branded mages freely. Even after it all stopped, I was certain…” He slid his face down to bury it in Anders’ neck again, arms wrapping around the mage’s shoulders, that hand still tangled in his hair.

Licking his dry lips, Anders allowed himself to breath. He was still for several moments, contemplating the situation. Fenris just clung to him. Finally, he replied, keeping his voice low and quiet.

“I would’ve thought you’d be pleased if I was slaughtered or branded.” He realized after he spoke that his words may have seemed derisive, but it was true all the same: why was Fenris so concerned for him?

He felt the elf tense and worry shot through him. Even if they’d never gotten along, even if Fenris was a prickly, angry bastard, seeing a familiar face after all these years was far more significant to Anders than he ever would have thought. He knew he would regret it if he scared the omega off.

But Fenris did not run; did not even pull away except to look at Anders with those huge, searching green eyes. He had aged gracefully, Anders noted immediately. Crows feet and smile-lines ( _frown-lines_ , he thought) were mostly what had changed on the elf’s face, though the bags under his eyes were darker and his lips seemed a bit thinner. Aside from that and the greying of his dark eyebrows, Fenris was just as beautiful as Anders remembered. And suddenly he was very self-conscious; he must look a mess. His hair was tangled and his beard probably needed a trim, clothes worn and ratty...

Then Fenris looked down and away, as he did when he was uncomfortable with whatever he spoke of. “I...did as well, at first,” he admitted quietly. He seemed to visibly droop. “But then Hawke--” his throat hitched and Anders flinched slightly as the claws on his nape gripped tightly. Though he could guess how Fenris felt…

Anders had been numb for weeks after he read Varric’s letter, not even registering the fact that the dwarf had somehow managed to track him down. Hawke had been his dearest friend and he knew she had been Fenris’ as well. Marian had seemed so indestructible, so...invincible. Her death had been a grim reminder of his own fragile mortality.

“I realized that I am so _tired_ of losing people,” Fenris continued quietly, finally raising his eyes to meet Anders’. The mage nodded a bit in understanding and sighed softly.

“Me too,” he murmured. Offering a small smile, Anders risked wrapping his arms around Fenris’ waist to hug him properly, resting his chin on the elf’s shoulder. Fenris returned the embrace, squeezing him tightly. They stood like that for some moments, and Anders felt content.

But when he dared squeeze the omega’s waist just a bit, Fenris tensed and started to pull away with an awkward throat-clearing. Anders released him immediately, feeling entirely deflated. The elf took a few steps back to put distance between them, his eyes downcast and his face flushed a bright pink that Anders was certain was from something other than the cold. Anders drew breath to speak, but Fenris bent quickly and retrieved their weapons, shoving the staff into the mage’s hands before he could say anything. The elf then squared his shoulders as he placed his sword on his back and braved looking up at Anders.

“So you...live here?” he asked. His eyes averted again before Anders could even answer. Though honestly, the mage was surprised Fenris managed to hold eye contact for that long at all.

“Mhm,” Anders replied cheerfully, trying to be as friendly as possible; trying to keep the elf there. “Nearly a year, I think. Usually I’d have moved on by now, but…” he shrugged with a lopsided grin and leaned onto his staff a bit. “Suppose I’m just too old to wander anymore.”

Fenris grunted. Anders couldn’t help his grin; who knew he missed the elf’s grumpy noncommittal noises?

“What about you? How...how did you find me?” His smile faded and he bit his lip, suddenly nervous.

“You are not so good at hiding as you think, mage,” Fenris said. There was no bite to his voice, and Anders could swear he saw a bit of a smile. The elf shrugged. “Or perhaps I am exceptional at tracking wanted apostate abominations.” Definitely a smile. “Either way, rest assured that no one else seems to know to where the mage who incited the rebellion has disappeared. Though all one need do is follow the trail of the selfless blonde healer in dire need of a shave.”

“HA!” Anders couldn’t contain his bark of a laugh. He grinned broadly at Fenris’ smirk. “You do have a sense of humor! And I look damn good with this beard, thank you very much.”

Fenris just chuckled softly, that flush on his face deepening.

Anders wrapped his cloak around himself more tightly and worried at his bottom lip. “Well, I...I don’t have much to offer guests, but I have four sturdy walls and a fireplace. Oh, and soup. Bit bland, but it’s filling.” He offered a nervous smile.

Fenris returned his smile softly and the tension seemed to rush out of him. “I’d like that.” 

 

* * *

 

The walk back to Anders’ little hut was intensely awkward. Fenris had thought after their admittedly strange reunion the mage would chatter at him to fill the silence as he always used to in Kirkwall. Instead he followed the beta quietly, to his left and slightly behind him, the only sounds reaching his ears the crunching of gravel underfoot.

He studied the mage as they walked; he’d not recognised the man at first, only concluding that this was indeed Anders when he’d smiled at the baker, before he noticed Fenris following him. Once he’d gotten close enough there was no doubt in his mind; he remembered Anders’ mild beta scent well. His hair was exceedingly long (how could he _stand_ it? Fenris’ hair was just starting to tickle his shoulder and it was _infuriating_ ) and still shone a copperish blonde despite the many years past. Fenris was still unsure what to think of that beard, though he supposed it offered a kind of distinguishing quality to the man. Anders used his staff as a walking stick and Fenris noticed immediately that this was not just for the sake of disguise; the mage seemed to be favoring his left leg. The elf frowned at this.

“Well it’s no mansion in Hightown, but it’s not _that_ bad.” Anders’ voice broke Fenris from his thoughts. He looked passed Anders to see a charming hut, surrounded on all sides by large trees and bushes that the elf could tell would shield the home well when the leaves grew in. Smoke plumed softly from the little chimney and--of course--a cat watched them from the lone window. It was almost...idyllic.

Fenris flushed and tried to stop frowning. “Oh--no, I was not--it is...ah...very nice,” he replied lamely.

Anders just smirked and continued up to the door, giving the cat in the window a wave. He stepped aside after opening the door to allow Fenris in first, and the elf sighed when he was enveloped in the warmth of a low fire burning in the hearth. Next to the fireplace was a bed--an actual bed, Fenris noticed; an upgrade from the filthy cot the mage slept on in Kirkwall. On the other side of the fireplace, next to the window, was a rocking chair. A table sat on the opposite end of the hut, near the door, surrounded by three chairs; it was covered in herbs and plants in various states of being made into potions and poultices. Herbs and plants Anders was desperately trying to shove away and tidy up.

“Maker, the mess…” he mumbled to himself. Anders huffed at the table, clearly unhappy with only half of it being cleared, but ushered the elf over. “Sit, sit. I’ll put on some tea. You be _nice_ , Lady Prissy Pants.” He shook a finger at the cat that was sauntering over as Fenris sank awkwardly into one of the chairs. He perked a brow at the cat’s name, but was all the same unsurprised by it, watching as it sat at his feet. It sniffed his boot, sneezed, growled at the offending footwear, then sauntered back off to the bed, tail held high. Lady Prissy Pants, indeed.

As Anders shuffled back over with tea, Fenris carefully removed his gauntlets. He glanced around nervously, trying to decide where to put them, before setting them on the floor and awkwardly pushing them under his chair. He flexed his toes in his boots, hating how confining they were, but unsure if it would be too imposing to remove them. Anders hummed as he poured their tea, then settled into the chair next to Fenris.

“I don’t think we’ve ever just...sat and talked like this, have we?” the mage asked softly, blowing on his tea.

Fenris accepted his drink silently, holding the cup with both hands to warm his fingers. He glanced up at the beta’s words and offered a smile, trying for apologetic.

“No...we haven’t. I should apologise for my behaviour in Kirkwall.” He dropped his eyes back to his tea. “I was just...so angry. You did not deserve that anger.”

Anders scoffed into his tea, then took a sip. “Please, Fenris, I was just as nasty to you. At least you had a reason to distrust mages, what with that Danarius twat torturing you. I was just...well.” His voice dropped and he frowned into his drink. “I’m not sure what I was back then…” He sighed and shrugged, looking back to the omega. “I’m sorry too, for what it’s worth.”

A breath he did not realise he had been holding escaped the elf. Fenris smiled again at Anders, feeling himself relax. He finally drank his tea.

“Well, now that we’ve got all that out of the way,” the mage said cheerfully, “how have you been, Fenris? You look amazing--you’ve barely aged!”

Fenris huffed out a small laugh, feeling his face heat at the compliment. “A side effect of the lyrium, I believe. I am well, I suppose. Since Kirkwall I’ve been doing what I do best--killing slavers.” He smirked. “And Templars.”

Anders visibly perked up at that, grinning brightly. Fenris felt his chest tighten at the sight and he swallowed thickly.

“You, serrah, are my new best friend!” Anders declared.

Fenris had to chew at his bottom lip to stop himself grinning like a fool. “And you, mage? How is life as a _wanted_ apostate?”

“Oh, just glamorous,” Anders snarked. “I don’t have age-defying lyrium keeping me young, so,” he flung out his arms, indicating himself, “I got old, as you can see.”

“And yet you are no less attractive,” Fenris found himself saying, his heart thumping in his chest as he said it. Maker, but he was awkward…

Anders blinked at him, obviously surprised by the compliment, and his entire face went pink. He cleared his throat. “Yes, well...I uhm. I had a bit of a struggle there with Justice, but...he’s finally quiet. I’m just me again. Well, until he smelled you, that is.”

The elf nearly spit out his tea. “ _Smelled_ me?”

“Your lyrium,” Anders grinned. “He’s quite taken with you.”

Fenris ‘harumphed’ and brought his tea up to his lips. He was still very wary of the mage’s...traveler. He had realised, after a time, that Anders would never have gone through with his plans if not for Justice, or whatever it was the spirit had become from their merging. He had realised many things about the man. Though he was unsure if he forgave him for the destruction he caused, he certainly no longer felt any animosity towards him. That had died years ago with Hawke.

“You can take those boots off, you know.”  
  
Fenris looked up quickly and the mage looked at his feet pointedly. “I’ve never seen you wear boots before; I’ve heard that elves have very sensitive feet. Go on, take them off.” He smiled softly, encouragingly.

The elf sighed deeply with relief as he pulled the footwear off, along with the thick socks. “Thank you. I’ve never encountered such cold weather before. Tevinter is always warm, and it never snowed in Kirkwall,” he explained as he set the boots aside. He wiggled his toes with a little smirk. “I tried to hold out as long as I could, but…” he trailed of with a shrug.

“Would you believe I’ve actually seen the few elves in this village going barefoot in the blighted snow? Makes me shiver just to think about.”

Fenris smiled fondly at the man. “It just depends on what you’re acclimated to, I suppose.”

And so the men talked. They spoke of their travels and the hardships that came after the destruction of the Kirkwall chantry, and again after the Conclave. Fenris reminisced animatedly of the rifts and demons he encountered, how his lyrium was affected by the magical disturbances. Anders conveyed the misery he struggled with, of Justice’s constant melancholy and his battle with the spirit to be silent. They traded their favorite stories of their time in Kirkwall, of the friends they left behind...of Hawke.

They spoke well into the night; Anders prepared them both soup and more tea. When the topic of Hawke came up, neither could speak of her for long. A comfortable quiet settled over them, and Fenris suddenly reached into his cloak. Anders watch as the omega produced a very worn, very old book. There was no title on the cover or spine.

“...You haven’t asked me why I was trying to find you, yet…” Fenris said softly, running a palm reverently over the cover of the book.

Anders watched him and did not reply for a moment. When he did, his voice was soft. “When I first saw you I really did think you were here to kill me. I’d have let you, too.” Fenris looked up quickly at that, brow furrowed. Anders smiled sadly. “I don’t have it in me to fight anymore.”

“I…” Fenris began, but Anders held up a hand to silence him.

“I know you hate me. At least what I am; what I did. I admit I’m still trying to figure out why you’re being so nice to me. But I suppose the shock of just...seeing a familiar face made me forget to ask you. That and I didn’t want to do anything that might scare you away.”

Silence, again. Then Fenris sighed deeply and gently laid the book on the table.

“I do not hate you, mage…” he said quietly. “I never _hated_ you. Yes, I hated that you took a d-... _spirit_ unto yourself. I hated that decision...among others. I did not--do not--hate _you_. You did annoy me, however,” he added with a slight smirk. “But this…” he ran a hand yet again over the cover of the book, “changed that. This is why I found you.” He pushed the book closer to the beta. “You should read it after I leave.”

Anders looked up quickly from the book. “You’re...leaving?” He didn’t even try to hide the disappointment in his voice. Fenris just smiled as he slipped back into his boots and gauntlets.

“I’ve a room at the inn. I thought I might stay a while. The... _village_...has grown on me.” Anders grinned broadly. The omega stood and stepped towards the sitting beta. To the mage’s surprise, the elf rested a hand on Anders’ head. “I look forward to seeing you again tomorrow.” When he walked toward the door, Anders stood to quickly open it for him.

“Yes. Tomorrow. Me too. I’ll just, ah. Be here. Have a good night.” Anders mentally kicked himself for being so awkward. But Fenris smirked nonetheless.

“Good night...Anders.”

When the elf’s figure was engulfed in shadow and he could no longer watch as he headed to the village, Anders sighed and shut the door. He leaned against it and ran a hand over his face and beard. “Please don’t let this be a dream…” he muttered to no one. Lady Prissy Pants mewed in reply. Anders looked up and saw that she was standing in a chair, front paws on the table, head leaned down to sniff at the book Fenris had left. Pushing away from the door, the beta hobbled over. He pet the cat with one hand and carefully opened the cover with the other. Nothing could have prepared him for seeing the familiar handwriting that curled on the inside of the cover.

_‘The personal journal of Marian Hawke.’_


End file.
